


Does the heart still crave the spot it yearned on?

by elapses



Category: The House of Mirth - Edith Wharton
Genre: F/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-20
Updated: 2008-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-25 15:29:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elapses/pseuds/elapses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In retrospect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Does the heart still crave the spot it yearned on?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for thesewarmstars during Yuletide 2008. The original notes:
> 
> Oh my god, FANFICTION FOR LITERATURE. Someone please remind me why I thought this was a good idea? It's so much more difficult to do Edith Wharton justice than it is to handle any assortment of TV characters. This was such a task for me. And as such I'd like to thank veils & coast not only for their insightful beta work (this story is twice what it would have been because of you two) but also for holding my hand through this process. Praedial, too-- I wouldn't've done this in the first place without you, Stephanie. You are such lovely, lovely people to have helped me through my writing tantrums, I cannot thank you enough.
> 
> Oh and to my dear recipient, I know you probably won't see this the first time you read the story, but I know I veered from the prompt and your letter. I tried, and your will is why this is a Selden POV story, but it was hard to find a place in the novel I thought needed fleshing out or retelling. I hope this pre-canon piece works for you?

He had been engaged in a game of subterfuge with Lydia Somers for what felt like months but was in fact only three weeks, and he felt it was meant to come to a head that night at George Dorset's wedding to Bertha Bellamy. On his dinner plate, hidden in the folds of his napkin, there was an unsigned note that implored him to meet her in the east garden at seven in her unmistakable penmanship, and while she had not looked to see whether he had read it, he saw her slip away.

Bertha Bellamy's hand was in every last detail of her nupitals -- it was clear she had spent a great deal of time ensuring that everyone who was anyone would have an obvious preview of how rich she was going to be. (He suspected his own invitation had been a subtle move on Mrs. Somers part, because he was hardly anyone.) But that made it that much easier for him, with everyone preoccupied with dancing and dessert and everyone else there, and so at five past seven, he extricated himself from a conversation with Henry Taft, and spirited away to the east garden.

There was a bench in back corner of the garden by the yellow roses, and it was occupied, but not by the woman he had expected. Instead he found Lily Bart, hardly the girl he'd presume to find at the outskirts of the festivities -- she always seemed to be in the thick of the revelry, if not in some way creating it herself. And yet here she was.

Miss Lily Bart. She'd made an auspicious debut several seasons ago -- he had not been there, but he had heard tell after the fact. She was marvelous, everyone said, not simply because her looks were exquisite, although they were, but because she was charming, and an excellent conversationalist. He had not had a chance to be formally introduced to her, though, until two years after that. He had been acquainted with her a year, and though she had never been anything but polite to him, she never had more than a few cordial words to bestow on him. He understood, of course; he had been around society long enough to know her type. There were an endless supply of beautiful charmers on the hunt for a wealthy husband, waiting to attach themselves to the first bland millionaire more than willing to exchange jewels and gowns for a woman who would grace him with her attentions. Little did they seem to realize that such women were hardly the types to continue to lavish them with attentions when the nuptials were over. He wondered, for example, how George Dorset's new bride would think of him after a year of daily eating at the same table with his endless monologue of "could this possibly be paprika?"

From this angle he could see that the paper Lily Bart held in her hand was indeed a letter of some sort, one with the telltale breaks of handwritten poetry. Verses of love, no doubt, copied down by a besotted admirer. She seemed to have a depthless pool of those, and indeed she must not return her belletristic beau's sensibilities, if he read the casual set of her mouth as she creased the letter solidly closed correctly.

"Mr. Selden," she said with a smile, recognizing him -- her expression was genuine, but Lily Bart knew nothing if not calculated sincerity -- it was the secret to her genius, her triumph over all the other beauties. She was perhaps not inherently cruel, but there was a manipulative edge to everything she did, and sometimes he wondered if it was not in fact more cruel to seem so easy, fresh, and honest when in fact every action she took was just as thoughtfully premeditated as any of the casual shrews. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Please, sit."

Not entirely sure how else to respond, he obeyed, but did not speak.

"Mrs. Somers was here earlier, but she left in a hurry," Miss Bart remarked (his companion, it seemed, was perfectly capable of carrying on an entire conversation by herself). "Is she perhaps the reason you're here so far from the festivities?"

"Actually, yes," he said awkwardly, not particularly inclined to elaborate but not sure he was in a position not to.

She saved him the trouble of speaking, "We are quite out of sight here." A statement of fact, and yet an insinuation. And indeed, as if to emphasize her point, the orchestra struck up, sounding oddly spectral from this distance. "Do you make a habit of consorting with married women, Mr. Selden?"

He didn't, not usually, but her tone had him on the defensive. Oh, he knew the circumstances were suspect -- Lydia Somers was undeniablity legally coupled, and although neither party had meant anything untoward by their planned encounter, there was something unavoidably thorny about a planned private conversation so distant from the actual reception. It would have meant nothing if it had gone off as planned, but it was especially vexing to have been caught by a fluttering socialite like Lily Bart. He doubted she would speak of it, but in that silent assurance he was indebted to her, which made him uncomfortable.

"'Consorting' is rather an insinuating word, Miss Bart."

The smile she responded with was coy, the shadow of her face luminous in the gathering darkness -- the topic at hand was much easier for her. For some reason that makes him angry, and he demanded, "Do you ever take anything seriously, Miss Bart?"

"You do me an injustice to say that," said Lily after a moment.

"Do I? You seem as unconcerned about insulting a man you hardly know as you are about any bachelor who crosses your path. You have a reputation for disregard, Miss Bart. You are too aloof, too quick to dismiss your cavaliers. It will be your undoing."

"No," she said, and he was suddenly aware of her breath and the way it slid through her, even though she was shrouded in shadow and sitting a full foot away from him, "I fear it will be the opposite. But you are reacting overzealously, Mr. Selden, and it is unbecoming. You cannot presume to know me well."

"It isn't too difficult to know you well," he said after a moment. "You are a poor girl who has been taken in, you must intend to marry well. You are quite lovely -- and yet you blush when I say that, although you must know it to be true. That is a talent, you are quite in control of your charm, I would say. At twenty-two, you are hardly the ingénue you have occasionally been described as, and yet neither are you so scandalous as to be indecent. There is a tenacity to you too, and an underlying cunning. You hide it better than most other women, though, you'd hardly know it to look at you."

"This is a peculiar conversation," Lily remarked, pulling her eyes up from the stony edges of the walkway and back to his face. "You seem to know so much about me when I, circumspectly, know almost nothing about you. Are you in love with me?"

"No," he said shortly, although at her words he wondered, briefly, what it might be like to be entangled in a romance with a girl who spoke of love with such casual disinterest.

"No," she repeated to herself in an undertone. "No, I didn't think so. Still, you seem to have considered me a great deal, and I cannot deny my curiosity as to why. We have not, until now, conversed for any particular length of time."

"That is an overstatement," said Lawrence. "I am an observer. And I cannot truly confess to knowing you."

"No, you cannot," she said carefully, before abrubtly changing the subject. "I am quite glad for Bertha and George today."

He thought, for a half second that she was too small and too fresh to think on this too long, to worry about the intricacies of her own behavior, but she was always the illusionist, he doubted he could ever be sure of what she said versus what she meant.

"They've both gotten exactly what they set out to get," he said after a moment.

"Yes," she said, her voice suddenly three thousand miles away. "Funny how that works. George is exactly as rich and simple a man as Bertha Dorset ever needed, and Bertha is exactly the sort of social waif George has always expected to win himself, but don't you think they will make each other miserable?"

Selden chuckled at that, bringing his hand round to his to catch the sound, his fingers working the contours of his cheeks for a few brief seconds afterwards. "What couple doesn't? Do you expect any more of your future husband?"

"No," said Lily after a moment. "No, I find most rich men to be dreadfully boring. Most are preoccupied with some terribly tedious hobby, like metalwork on weaponry or cataloguing the species of bird they have spotted on their property."

"You speak quickly," said Selden. "You must be acquainted with a great deal of wearisome bachelors."

"I have long ago learned to endure."

Something about the way she said that, the demure purse of her lips, made him uncomfortable -- somewhere in the last minute she had charmed him into enjoying a conversation with her, and he suddenly wondered if he was mistaking his companion's practiced politeness for legitimate interest in his words. He stood slowly, shifting his weight carefully before turning back to her, intending to say nothing but a farewell.

"How is it you ended up out here?"

The expression that crossed her face had the barest ghost of a smile, but it disappeared after only a moment and he was left staring at her vivid and yet unreadable eyes. "Sometimes it does a person well to spend a little time away from scrutiny. Although your company has made that more difficult."

He smiled, lightly chastened, and turned to leave.

"Mr. Selden," she said, "You are an engaging man. I am glad to have had this chance to chat with you."

"Yes," he said. "Likewise."

And as he stepped away from her, he realized there wasn't a way to be sure if he had in his earlier assumptions of her character misjudged her entirely or captured her precisely.


End file.
